F.E.A.R.
“Nope. I value my life, and I don’t step between a mated witch and her P*******t board.”
“I don’t even have P*******t!”
“You are P*******t,” Cheyenne called from the back, where she was helping herself to a pre-party drink. “Possessed by the spirit of glitter and anxiety.”
Chelsea ignored her, eyes gleaming as she began listing food. “Okay, so: ribs, chicken wings, roasted veggies for the weirdos, moon pies, fire-roasted marshmallows—Ben, you’re manning the grill. You’re good with fire.”
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